


Celebratory Prompt Party!

by bowyer



Series: The Phrases That Pay; Prompt Fills. [1]
Category: 15th Century CE RPF, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The White Queen (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Modern AU, Multifandom collection, Pirate AU, Rule 63, as in I'm more following the history, sort of spoilers for future White Queen episodes?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-17
Updated: 2013-07-21
Packaged: 2017-12-20 12:09:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/887103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bowyer/pseuds/bowyer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[In honour of the same-sex marriage act coming into force in England and Wales, I threw a <a href="http://fotheringhay.tumblr.com/post/55637115784/timely-prompt-fest">Prompt Party</a> with the theme of ridiculous cute domesticity. Here are my offerings.]</p><p>1: Anne is up a tree, Isabel is scandalised and Francis and Richard are oblivious.<br/>2: Thorin is perhaps not the best person to leave with children.<br/>3: Bofur gets herself into trouble. Luckily, she's sleeping with the best pirate captain on the Erebor sea.<br/>4: Anne & Richard after the Battle of Tewkesbury.<br/>5: Bifur has a Bad Day, but Thorin is there to make it better.<br/>6: Anne & Richard, kissing in the rain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Anne Neville/Richard III; young!Anne & Isabel thinking about the future.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from milliebee11: _Could you write about pre-series Isobel and Anne making up stories about when Anne (hopefully) gets married to Richard please? Like describing her wedding dress or the children they'll have. *^.^*_
> 
> It turned into a little less "Anne and Isabel story time!" and a little more sisterly-bonding. Oh, and there's Francis Lovell. And wet teenage boys remotely undressed.

Anne’s eyes are big and mournful as she looks down at Isabel from one of the higher branches of the oak tree. “I cannot get down,” she calls down.

 

“I should leave you there,” Isabel mutters darkly, already rolling up the hemline of her skirt and looking around to see if their Lady Mother is lurking around a corner to scold them. They’re having a rest-day, but that does not mean she would approve of her daughters climbing trees.

 

They are not the _only_ two having a rest-day, Isabel discovers when she winds her way up to sit on the heavy branch that already bears her sister’s weight.

 

From the branch Anne has settled herself into – there is a bag of apples tucked into the trunk, just _how_ long has her little sister been sat here? – there is a perfect view of the castle lake. And two of their father’s pages, enjoying the late summer heat less than fully dressed.

 

“Anne Neville!” she hisses, far less scandalised than she pretends to be, for her sister’s sake. Anne is still young and impressionable, after all.

 

(Although already considerably _impressioned_ if she’s been watching Richard and Francis horse around in the lake for the duration of two apples.)

 

“I was merely seeking shade,” Anne widens her eyes again – she has the large, expressive eyes of the Neville dynasty – as there is a laughing shout from the lake and Richard tackles Francis into the water.

 

“You are _shameless_ ,” she reaches out to poke her sister’s shoulder. “What would Dickon think if he knew?”

 

Isabel regrets her words instantly when Anne’s face falls. Richard is nothing if not proper. _He_ would not have to fake being scandalised at the idea of the girls – she supposes she’s complicit now, enjoying the breeze and slowly eating an apple from Anne’s bag – watching them bathe. He would probably tell their Lord Father and they would both be whipped for the impropriety.

 

“ _Francis_ would find it funny,” her younger sister mutters, jutting at her jaw as she does when she is particularly frustrated. “And I – I was not – I was only –”

 

“Only?” Isabel prompts with a raise of her eyebrow. “And that would be _Lord_ Lovell to you, you goblin.”

 

Anne plays with the hem of her skirt and purposefully avoids Isabel’s eyes, “I was watching him smile.”

 

“You were…?”

 

“I saw Dickon and Francis in the kitchens this morning and they were talking about – going out, and –” she raises her eyes to glare defiantly at Isabel. “ _You_ know, Issy, he smiles better when he is with Francis and no one else and I _wasn’t_ watching them bathe, I _wasn’t_!”

 

So Isabel is a sentimental fool. She drops the subject.

 

(She had assumed that her little sister’s fondness for Dickon had dissipated as she grew older and stopped following him around the castle like a kicked puppy lisping his name, but apparently it has not. Annie is still young, it may turn carnal, but –)

 

In a most unladylike manner, Isabel knocks her sister on the back of the head. “You goose,” she says as Anne squawks in outrage. “Next you’ll be telling me that you are hoping our father proposes a _match_.”

 

Anne colours a deep red and hides her face, leaning past her sister to get another apple. “ _Issy_!”

 

“Would you want that?” And Isabel is teasing, yes, but she is also genuinely curious. “You could wear a wedding gown of, oh… maybe light blue? He could carry you to your bed – well, actually, maybe not, you are much of the same height – and he could ravish you and –”

 

“ _Issy, stop it_!” Isabel wasn’t even sure it was possible for Anne to go a darker red, but she has. “Dickon prefers purple, anyway.”

 

“Purple’s for queens, not princesses,” she presses her finger to the tip of Anne’s nose. “I’m only teasing, Annie.”

 

In the lake, almost forgotten about, Richard resurfaces from underwater, water spouting out of his mouth like a fountain. He pushes back his mess of dark curls and says something to the golden boy next to him. Isabel cannot see far enough to verify, but she is certain that Francis is smiling.

 

Dickon is slightly closer – or perhaps she just knows her cousin better than her father’s ward – and he turns his head to the side as he gets out of the lake, and she suddenly understands what Anne means.

 

“I don’t think I would like a large amount of children,” Anne muses. The colouring on her cheeks has faded somewhat, remaining only in a pretty blush across her cheeks. “Not as many as _she_ appears to be having.”

 

“Dickon has many brothers and sisters,” Isabel points out, taking a final bite of her apple and dropping the core to the ground. “Perhaps he will want many children. It would be your duty as a wife to give him them.”

 

Her little sister shakes her head vehemently, “Dickon wants a small amount of children. He told Francis –" she closes her mouth with a small  _click._

 

 _"_ And just  _how_ many times have you spied on them?"

 

"Not – you would do the same, Issy, if George was here!"

 

"I –" Isabel is saved from having to defend herself by Anne's shriek and she reaches out to stabilise her little sister and prevent her falling out of the tree.

 

"Funny looking birds m'Lord Warwick has in his trees," Francis calls across to Richard, both still soaked, but now fully dressed. "Have  _you_ ever seen one of these before, Dickon?"

 

"Rare birds indeed," from Richard's mouth, it's practically a jest. "What are you doing up there, Anne?"

 

"Eating," Anne says crisply, before throwing her half eaten apple at Francis' head. " _That's_ for splashing me."

 

"Fair enough," Francis turns the apple around and bites into the other side. "Would the funny looking birds like an escort back to the castle?" He holds out a hand. "'Else our princely highness will go up in flames. He's all red already, see?"

 

Richard, who's already going faintly pink from the sun, promptly turns two shades darker. "I will put a _frog_ in your bed," he growls.

 

"Looking forward to it. Now, m'Lady Isabel, if I may escort you...?" Isabel takes the proffered hand and jumps from the tree. She can practically  _feel_ Anne blushing behind her as Richard helps her down.

 

Francis links his arm through hers. "Now, Miss Isabel," he says in a lower voice, a grin spreading on his face. "What  _exactly_ were you two doing up that tree?"


	2. Thorin/Dwalin; modern AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from ravensstag: _Thorin/Dwalin, modern AU? :3_
> 
> In which I raid my childhood memories and steal the favourite family story of what happened the week my dad was put in charge of looking after my twin brothers. And Dwalin does some reminiscing.
> 
> ( **Warning:** for accidental child overdose and mentions of character death?)
> 
> Many thanks to my dearest asssense for a quick look over <3

The first thing Dwalin notices is that his house is a mess. No, not a mere _mess_. It looks like it’s been ran through with a rampaging army, who looted and pillaged as they went.

 

He’s fairly sure that isn’t what’s happened here.

 

Well, unless the army is composed of two wee monsters, one of whom has to get custom-made shoes because his feet aren’t big enough for proper walking shoes yet.

 

“Thorin?” he calls out cautiously, stepping over a discarded toy crossbow. At least, he _thinks_ it’s a toy.

 

 

 

 _(“My sister is marrying an idiot,” Thorin huffs, arms wound around Dwalin’s neck as some terrible DJ plays godawful music. “Adli has_ no _brains.”_

_Dwalin looks across to the aforementioned Adli, who’s currently slow dancing with his best friend while Dis laughs, her head tilted back and her eyes sparkling. She has Adli’s best friend’s hat balancing on her head and Dwalin thinks_ it’s nice to see you happy.

_“Well,” he says instead, pushing his forehead against Thorin’s temple. “Dis and I have that in common at least.”_

_Thorin’s face contorts in what’s supposed to be outrage, but he’s too happy to make it stick. His hand scrabbles at Dwalin’s hip, trying to pinch through the material of the shirt and failing miserably. Dwalin makes a ‘shh’ noise in the back of his throat and lifts Thorin’s arm back up to rest against his shoulder.)_

Adli’s an idiot and Dwalin wouldn’t put it past him to buy a crossbow for the demons in human skin that are his sons.

 

“Thorin?” he says again, and there’s still no answer. His ‘Durins causing shit’ senses (honed by years of being Thorin’s best friend and a surrogate brother to Dis and Frerin) are on high alert.

 

He enters the kitchen and immediately pieces together some of the puzzle.

 

His – their – kitchen is covered in flour. Not just a few sprinklings here and there, but _liberally coated_. Thorin’s not the world’s best cook, but not even he is _this_ much of a disaster in the kitchen.

 

No, this has baby Durin footprints all over it, both literally and metaphorically.

 

Dwalin backs out of the kitchen to avoid making more of a mess and heads upstairs, shouting out his husband’s name again. No answer.

 

"...Thorin?" He was banking on them being in the bathroom. They are not.

 

Dwalin is beginning to get worried now.

 

 

 

 _("You've been gone for_ three days _, Thorin," is all Dwalin says as he steps away to let his friends in. "We've been worried sick."_

 

 _"Frerin's dead." Thorin is tall for his age, and has always looked older than he is, but right now he looks damn right young. His hair is sticking up on end where he's tugged at it and he looks completely_ devastated.  _"He's - I couldn't -"_

 

_Dwalin tugs him in, "I know, I know." His friend's heart beat is racing, but he clings to Dwalin like a life raft on a sinking ship. "You couldn't do anything, it's not your -"_

 

_It's not his place to ask where Thorin has been for the last three days. It doesn't matter. He's here now. Here and safe and Dwalin can look after him. That's what matters. Dwalin will piece Thorin and Dis together with his bare hands if he has to._

 

_"Dwalin?" Thorin's eyes are large and blue and closer than Dwalin had realised._

 

_"Yes?" He says quietly, and doesn't let go._

 

_Thorin's lips crash against his with no little amount of force and Dwalin kisses him back, a steady hand on his back. Thorin is back. Thorin is safe.)_

 

 

Dwalin doesn't like not knowing where Thorin is.

 

Luckily, he doesn't have to wait for too long. The front door creaks open (Dwalin really needs to fix those hinges), and he hears Thorin shout "Fili,  _no!_ "

 

Dwalin thunders down the stairs, "Where have you been?" he demands.

 

"Hospital," Thorin grunts, a sleepy Kili in his arms. "Dwalin  _get him_!"

 

He does, in fact, manage to catch Fili before he dives into the flour soaked kitchen.

 

The five year old wrinkles his nose up at Dwalin, but doesn't try and escape. "Can I have a biscuit?"

 

"No," Thorin says before Dwalin can open his mouth. "Not after how you behaved in the car. You're having a bath and then going to bed."

 

Fili looks about to scream, and then he catches Thorin's eye and thinks better of it.

  
  
"Everything alright?" Dwalin asks, resting a hand on Kili's head. The toddler barely murmurs. "Hospital?"

 

"He drank a bottle of Calpol," up close, he can see just how tired Thorin is as he shifts Kili in his arms. "They say he'll be fine.  _How_ he got past the apparently childproof cap..." The wee one simply snuggles closer to Thorin. It’s weird to see him this quiet. “Anyway, I should get Fili bathed and then get this – can you –” he goes to offer Kili to Dwalin, but the toddler whines and sleepily clings to Thorin’s neck.

 

“I’ll sort Fili out.”

 

“We are _never_ having kids,” the baby in his arms somewhat negates Thorin’s statement.

 

 

 

_(After Dis and Adli, Thorin is the first to hold the baby. Dwalin watches the strange wee thing – he never saw many babies when he was growing up – kick and flail weakly. There are wisps of gold already forming on his head, but his eyes are so ridiculously Durin it makes him smile._

_“Hello,” Thorin says, his deep voice making the baby stop wriggling. “Hello Fili.”_

_The baby – Fili – coos softly and then starts wriggling again, as though he’s trying to escape. With instincts borne of a lifetime of rugby playing, Dwalin presses a hand along Thorin’s warm bare arm to keep Fili there. The baby pouts in frustration – or maybe Dwalin’s imagining things._

_“Watch out for the wee badger,” he mutters._

_“Your turn,” and before Dwalin can protest – he’s fine, he’s ok just watching really! babies are a bit small for him to be comfortable! – his partner dumps the baby in his arms._

_Fili is warm and comfortable and doesn’t wriggle nearly as much as he thought he would. Thorin rests his head against Dwalin’s shoulder, content to watch the baby from there._

_“You two look good like that,” Adli is watching them with a grin. For once, Dwalin can’t bring himself to disagree.)_

Fili is trying to run his own bath when Dwalin finds him. He is crying quietly, little hands struggling to turn on the tap that is further away.

 

“Need some help there, laddie?” Dwalin kneels down next to him.

 

“Uncle,” Fili hiccups and wipes his face on his arm, “Uncle Thorin doesn’t love me anymo-ore!” The words bring a fresh tirade of sobs from the five year old, who is still covered in flour.

 

Luckily, Dwalin can multitask. “Don’t be silly,” he says, leaning across to turn on the other tap. “Of course he still loves you. Why do you think that? What did you do?”

 

But Fili has descended into too many sobs to form words, so Dwalin doesn’t push it. He helps the little one with his clothes – Fili can _almost_ dress and undress himself, but he’s not very good with the buttons on his jeans – and lifts him up into the bath tub.

 

Fili is better in the bath than Kili is – Kili is still at the stage where water is his Sworn Enemy and must be attacked with flailing fists and sent splattering at all adults – and it calms him down until he’s merely hiccupping again. The fact that Dwalin’s not left him in the bath alone seems to be calming him down as well.

 

It’s not _entirely_ peaceful; the flour is congealing with the water in Fili’s hair, which means he wails as Dwalin scrubs at it, but it’s good enough. He’s drying Fili off when he hears the door creep open.

 

“ _Uncle!_ ” Fili screeches at a decibel that Dwalin didn’t think was possible before he met Dis’ children, and he wriggles out of the towel to launch himself at Thorin’s leg. “I’m sorry Imsorryimsorrymsry!” He babbles, clinging tightly to it.

 

To his credit, Thorin only looks _faintly_ nonplussed that he’s got a naked small child clinging to his leg. He _is_ an uncle, after all.

 

“That’s quite alright, Fili,” he says gruffly. “You’re forgiven. Don’t do it again.”

 

“Do you love me now?” Fili sniffles, still balling his hands in his Thorin’s jeans. “’M really sorry.”

 

“Of course I do,” Thorin takes the pro-offered towel and holds it out to him. “Now, come on, let’s get you to bed.”

 


	3. Bofur/Nori; pirate queens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: _Bofur/Nori! Or Bofur/Dwalin. Or hey, maybe all three together._
> 
> I suddenly had the urge for rule!63 Pirate Queens. I've been crewing a lot recently.

“Bloody hell, Bof, you do know how to pick ‘em,” a very welcome grumble floats through the tiny window of her cell. And then – "You better not be asleep, you thankless bastard, y'hear me?"

 

"I think you'll find," Bofur murmurs, jolting from her half-asleep daze. "That my folks were married  _long_  before they had me."  _Unlike some_ , she has the urge to say, but it's probably not best to rile Nori whilst she's so clearly on top right now. There is a faint screech of metal. "Mahal's balls, Nor, could you be any louder?"

 

"I will leave you in here to rot," Nori growls.

 

(Bofur can imagine her now, in her dark breeches and her hair braided up and around her head, instead of her distinctive tri-cornered magnificence, and her tongue sticking out her mouth as she saws at the bars of the cell window. It's been three days and Bofur  _longs_  for her.)

 

"Bastard  _sodding_  elvish prisons!" the captain outside unleashes a torrent of curses at the innocent metal bars.

 

"Be nice," Bofur reaches up a hand to her hat and then remembers that the sour-faced guards had taken it away 'just in case'. And, ok,  _maybe_  she hides files in there.  _Maybe._  "They're only doing their job. It's not  _their_  fault."

 

"I  _will_  leave you."

 

A deep voice chuckles and makes Bofur jump, before her brain catches up with her ears and reminds her that Nori's hardly going to conduct a prison break _alone_. "You're very cute, lasses."

 

"Leave you and put Dwalin in there  _with_  you," but there's no heat to Nori's words. "Spiced elven  _testicles_ , where's Dori when you need him? He'd be able to bend these in three seconds  _flat_ , and lecture me about the indelicacies of lock picking at the same time."

 

There is another screech of metal on metal that makes Bofur cringe. Surely her guards aren't incompetent enough to miss that?

 

Nori and Dwalin seem to be thinking similar things, as they hold a muttered conversation the other side of her cell. And then suddenly, there are footsteps and silence.

 

"Dwal? Nor?" she gets no answer.

 

So Bofur is alone again. Nori's never been one for bonds, and Nori always puts herself first. The only unselfish act she's ever done is move from the port of Ered Luin so her brothers only see her a few times a year, when  _The Winged Furnace_  sails into town with her standing at the helm like an avenging goddess of yore. Nori isn't coming back, and Bofur will rot in this tiny cell with guards who leer at her and offer her good food if she gifts  them 'favours' and –

 

"Hope you're not dead, Bof. Dwalin's not got the brains for a first mate." Her eyes fly open to see the figure of her captain leaning against the open doorway of her cell, smirking like she's got something to be proud of. Nori gives her a wave. "Evening, mate."

 

 _I thought you'd – you should have –_  "About time," she settles for instead.

 

"Wanted to let the message sink in first," Nori shrugs.

 

"Message?"

 

The captain rolls her eyes and holds out a hand, "Oh, never to piss off Dain. He's a bastard with pirates, y'know."

 

Bofur looks around her cell as Nori tugs her up, "I never would have guessed."

 

Her knees buckle – three days without food will do that to you – and it's only Nori's quick reflexes that stop her from hitting the floor again, a warm calloused hand gripping the back of her skirt, because Bofur may be a  _pirate_ , but she's still a  _lady_. Every time she says this, Nori just laughs and tells her to stand in the crow’s nest in a skirt, and see how long she lasts up there.

 

"I can –"

 

" _Mine_ , Dwal," there's a possessive note in Nori's voice that makes Bofur grin, and distracts her enough to mean she's caught off guard when Nori sweeps her into her arms. "Oof, Bofur, you weigh a tonne. Cut down on the mead."

 

"Bastard," Bofur grumbles, slipping her arms around Nori's neck and holding on tightly. Nori always smells slightly of spices, even though it's been years since she carried a legal cargo like that. She buries her face in the junction of the captain's neck and shoulder, and clings.

 

It doesn't take them long to get back to  _The Winged Furnace_ , and apparently Dwalin is intimidating enough that no one queries why there's a cross-dressing female dwarf carrying another in her arms. Before long, Bofur can hear the lap of the sea against wooden boards, and she relaxes slightly. She's not like Nori, she's perfectly at home on land, but there's something about the relief of the sea that – well, it calms her. At least tonight.

 

Nori carries her aboard to cheers from their motley crew of mixed species, and the gangplank rolls up behind her. Bofur's face remains pressed into Nori's neck, so she feels when the other dwarf ducks into their cabin and places her on the bed with a gentleness that seems misplaced for Nori.

 

( _The Winged Furnace_  is already moving, anchor being pulled up and clumsy footed Kili scurrying to unleash the stern rope, and Bofur is safe now.)

 

"Welcome back," Nori says, sweeping Bofur's hair out of her face. "Don't do that again."

 

"I'll do my best not to," Bofur grumbles, taking the biscuit that Nori's offering. "Did you raid Dwalin's stash?" Nori gives her an innocent look that very clearly says  _yes_.

 

Her hand is still running through Bofur's hair, strong fingers undoing the remnants of braids until it falls loose around her shoulders. "You should get some sleep," she murmurs, leaning forward to kiss her forehead. "We're setting sail for Ered Luin."

 

"Sounds good," Bofur leans unconsciously into the touch. "Bastard Dain stole me 'at."

 

Nori shoots her a look that would be a loving look on anyone else's face. "I'll get it back," she promises, squeezing her shoulder. "Now sleep, Bof. You'll be no use to me as a first mate else wise."

 

She nods and rolls over to press her face into Nori's pillow, breathing in her spicy-sweet scent as the door closes behind her, the  _Furnace's_  crew's chatter lulling her to sleep.

 

"Now listen here, y'rowdy lot! Shut yer gobs, y'ear me?" Nori roars, breaking through. "Bofur's tryin' to sleep, and I won't have any of you disturbing her.  _So shut it!_ " They're the last words Bofur hears before she falls into a well-deserved sleep.


	4. Anne/Richard; Anne's thoughts after Tewkesbury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from jojothemeerkat: _Could you write a fic about Anne's thoughts after the battle of Tewkesbury and THAT conversation with Richard? Thanks! And yay for same-sex marriage!! :D_
> 
> It... sort of went along? And then my weapons kink came into play. I fail a bit at happiness and domesticity, don't I?

_“You chose to fight on.”_

 

Richard’s words are still ringing in her ears as they stop for the night at a passing inn, and she is left alone with the horses. She makes a soothing sound to calm her agitated horse. “Don’t be frightened,” she whispers to it, feeling its heartbeat flutter against the touch of her fingers. “We are safe now.”

 

There are men all around her, dismounting and stabling their horses, and she flinches every time they come just a little too close (so not safe, not really), but none of them come near enough to make her feel in grave danger.

 

Next to her, Richard’s horse whinnies and stamps its feet. “Shh,” she tries to keep one hand on both horse, but that just feels absurd.

 

Something in Richard’s saddlebag catches her eye.

 

 _“Little magpie Annie,”_ her father’s wards used to call her as she flitted about Middleham. _“All in black and white with an eye for shiny things_.”

 

She smiles as she curls her hand around the pommel of Richard’s sword. He does not use it much, favouring his poleaxe –

 

(“ _I prefer to keep a man at arms’ length when I run him through,” he had explained, merely another teenage in her father’s castle._

_"Not much running through to be doing with one,” Francis argued back, his fingers playing against the hilt of his longsword. “You just… smash them to death.”)_

– and so he would not miss it if she took it.

 

Richard is not much taller than her, ergo the blade is almost her size. There _must_ be a way she can secure it to her waist without it being obvious. Handling a blade is most unbecoming to a lady, after all.

 

The sword, beautiful in wrought steel, is heavy in her hands and she makes sure that she is far from the horses when she swings it. It clashes against the wooden stable post, but luckily without damage.

 

“You should grip it less like you are falling off a tree,” a voice says, “And more like you are shaking its hand.”

 

Anne whirls around, the sword clattering to the ground. Richard is leaning against the doorframe, his arms folded and an impassive look on his face. Her heart sinks.

 

“I –” her voice falters and she turns back to the horse. “I only wanted – to make sure –”

 

Richard crosses the stable in three paces and picks up the discarded weapon. “Perhaps it is too heavy?” He gives it a half-hearted swing, displaying the skill that a prince would be expected to use with an effortless grace that makes Anne’s mouth dry and her mind ache with jealous. “And a lady –”

 

“Should be able to defend herself,” the growl her voice takes on surprises her. Anne is sick and tired of being a pawn in the games of men, and she is bone-weary after the events of past days.

 

“Then,” Richard turns the sword around so the hilt is pointing towards her. “I shall teach you.” His hand is warm and gentle on her shoulder. “May I?”

 

“Y – yes,” she lets him stand close behind her, flat of his chest placed against her back, and he manipulates her arms into more of a fighting stance.

 

His breath tickles her ear, “You must not be afraid of it.”

 

“I could chop my own foot off,” Anne grumbles back. If she closes her eyes and thinks hard enough, they are back in Middleham, and she does not feel horrified for any disrespect she shows to her friend – captor – saviour – prince.

 

“Now that would be a surprise,” Richard laughs, and she likes the feel of it against her back. “Not even Francis managed that, and he was the clumsiest squire when he began.”

 

(And now Francis fights superbly, his golden smiling face set grimly as he cuts down all those in his path. The encouragement is there.)

 

They practice until Anne’s arms ache, and Richard himself is out of breath and, strangely, Anne no longer feels quite so bone-weary.

 

Three days hence, as she bids her chaperone farewell in the courtyard of George and Isabel’s residence, Richard presses a dagger into her hand with a smile just as sharp as the blade. When Anne smiles back, it is not one of mirth, but one of dangerous gratitude.

 

She will not be helpless again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone's curious as to what my mental image of Francis Lovell is, I'm thinking [ a young Dean O'Gorman](http://fuckyeahdeanogorman.tumblr.com/tagged/Young-Hercules). 
> 
> I think it's Michael Hicks who suggests Anne has her own agency and plots herself - in my head, she's not an innocent damsel that Richard and George play games with.


	5. Thorin/Bifur; Thorin being competent in a domestic situation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from lferion: _Timely prompt-fest ask -- Thorin please! Being domesticly competent under trying circumstances. Possibly with some Bifur in there too (friends is fine, more than friends also fine :-)) Or Thorin & Dwalin._
> 
> In The Hobbit companion I have, William talks about Bifur spacing out and having memory problems, as well as his language ones. So that's what I've tried to convey here. Stands to reason that some days would be worse than others.

He knows before he wakes that it will be a Bad Day. Bifur wakes with his body juddering and his head aching. His jaw is clenched too tightly shut for him to even attempt to speak; all he makes is a choked noise when he tries.

 

He doesn’t know where he is, and he doesn’t know where Bofur and Bombur are, and the dwarf sitting at the edge of the bed looks too harsh, too noble, _not one of them_.

 

Bifur hopes his cousins are safe.

 

 _//Stranger//_ he signs when he realises the strange dwarf is watching him. _//Speak name//_

“I am Thorin,” the stranger says, and he signs out his name at the same time.

 

_//Prince?//_

The stranger – Thorin – shakes his head. _//King.//_

_//How many days gone?//_ Bifur knows the words aren’t quite right this time. To his credit, Thorin waits for him to collect up his thoughts, instead of chattering over the top. But then, Bifur can’t imagine the strange, serious dwarf chattering away like his cousin. _//You… stranger?//_

“Does your head hurt? I’ll make you some tea,” Thorin sounds like a man who always has a plan. Of course he does, he’s King Under the Mountain.

 

Bifur closes his eyes and listens to Thorin stoke up the fire.

 

\---

 

“ **Today is bad** ,”Bifur must have slept, or gone into his head, because his jaw is looser now, and Thorin is reading a book in an armchair across from the bed.

 

“I can get you a sleeping draught, if you would prefer to sleep?” the other dwarf suggests, lowering the book.

 

Bifur shakes his head and regrets it instantly. The axe is throbbing, painful like a new wound. _//Tea//_ he spells out, reaching for Thorin.

 

Thorin moves slowly when he walks towards the bed, staying in Bifur’s line of sight and keeping both his hands where Bifur can see them. So he isn’t a stranger; not when he moves like that. Not when he doesn’t creep up on Bifur, or move too fast when Bifur’s head hurts far too much to focus on anything.

 

His hand trembles as he takes the mug of willow bark tea, but Thorin moves only to steady it.

 

“Tell me if you need stronger.” The words jar in Bifur’s head, like wind chimes confused in a gale.

 

The tea helps, soothes the ache.

 

“ **You’re no stranger** ,”Bifur says, when he tires of staring at the fine beamed ceiling and the pain is manageable. “ **You do not move so**.”

 

Thorin smiles at him, a slow, genuine smile, “ **I’m not, correct**.”

 

“ **I am… friends with a king?** ” Frowning hurts the axe, so Bifur doesn’t do that, but he hopes his words convey his general confusion.

 

Friends doesn’t fit with the strange room, and the fact that Thorin knows how to move around him and the strength he takes his tea. Not when he’s fairly sure Bofur is still unmarried, _friends_ doesn’t make sense for him living here.

 

\---

 

Bifur goes away inside his head more on Bad Days. He has his whittling knife in his hand when he comes back this time, a half-finished bear glaring at him from where it’s imprisoned in his hand.

 

“ **Are you well**?” Thorin asks, still at the armchair, still reading his book. He has his pipe dangling from two fingers and the heady smell of pipe weed is a soothing tang to the gentle atmosphere of the room.

 

“ **Hurts** ,” Bifur grunts out, because when the memories flood back they clash and crash inside each other like racing horses, and it _hurts_. _//Come//_ his fingers beg, _//Sit.//_

Bifur is a dwarf who commands a king, for Thorin does as he’s told. He sits closer to Bifur than he has done before, and lays a deliberate hand on his forehead, fingers brushing against the throbbing skin holding the axe in place. With the other hand, he wrests the knife from Bifur.

 

Not friends, Bifur remembers. He sees them fighting back to back, Thorin’s fur coat a prickly sensation against his neck. He sees them with a dwarfling under each arm – gold and raven, Fili and Kili – and feels the kick of the dwarfling that he carries. He sees them in bed, undressed, and Thorin is _laughing_.

 

“ **Are you better**?” Thorin murmurs, his voice a low rumble that doesn’t disturb the pain.

 

Bifur’s nails have dug into the bear in his hand, carving great chunks of wood out from it. He unclenches his hand slowly and nods. “ **Today is bad**.”

 

“I know,” Thorin doesn’t move his hand from its resting place on Bifur’s head, and he gently begins to massage the worst points. Bifur almost groans in pleasure, welcoming anything that will relieve that constant pain. “ **Tomorrow will be better**?”

 

He pulls Thorin’s other arm around him, so he is flat against his chest, “ **Today better**.” And he feels Thorin’s smile against the back of his head.


	6. Anne/Richard; kissing in the rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: _Hi I would love to prompt you with The White Queen : Anne & Richard. A kiss in the rain. I would love you forever! -Thank you_
> 
> SO APPARENTLY FRANCIS LOVELL IS MY TWQ!NORI. I CANNOT WRITE ANYTHING WITHOUT HIM LURKING THERE.
> 
> This is roughly set after the capture of Berwick, 1482. So wee!Edward (spoilers for later episodes I guess?) is about eight? It's also been written straight into writeordie in an airport lounge, so apologies.

It has been raining for three days, cold and lashing summer Northern rain. Edward has been kept inside during all of it, to protect his health, and it is making him fractious. Anne is tempted to scream on the third night, and just cast him adrift into the woods of Middleham, but she regrets her thoughts when the fit of temper he throws leaves him worn out, and he creeps to her lap to rest.

 

"When is my Lord Father coming home?" he whispers, eyes closed and dark eyelashes resting against always pale cheeks.

 

(They remind her of Richard. He too was a sickly child, and he is strong and well now; save the back pain that plagues him on days such as this.)

 

"Soon," she smoothes his hair down and croons to her precious boy. "He will be home soon."

 

"And will he have killed lots of Scots?" Anne had been reluctant for Edward to learn to fight, so young and fragile, but she was no match for Edward's cajoling and Richard's quiet sense. Even now, the glory of battle never fails to excite him.

 

Like father, like son. "He will," she confirms with a nod. "Now, if you sleep, he will be home sooner."

 

"Will he?" Edward looks at her with his young eyes full of doubt. "How will my Lord Father know whether I am sleeping?"

 

She merely smiles and strokes his hair again, full of maternal wisdom that Edward will trust despite himself, and her boy soon falls into a deep sleep.

 

"Is there no word?" she asks a passing manservant, catches his arm. "Of my husband and his men?"

 

The only answer she gets is a shake of the head. Richard is strong, and fierce, and skilled. His men are loyal and almost as skilled, and he has Francis at his side, who would rather die himself than let a blade come to Richard.

 

And if she keeps telling herself this, she will one day believe it.

 

_("I will keep him safe," Francis calls out, his voice muffled by his helmet, but clear enough. "I will stop him from wandering into the clutches of the will-o'-the-wisps!" He yelps as Richard swings around and smacks the rump of his horse with the blunt end of his axe, and, much to Edward's amusement, the horse nearly bolts._

 

_"I will keep myself safe," her Duke snorts, shaking his dark hair out of his face. "'Else you will ride your horse into a tree, Francis."_

 

_(The_ again _is merely implied, but it makes them all smile anyway.)_

 

_Richard touches her cheek gently, and leans down to kiss her once more. "I will be home before you know it," he promises to Edward. The boy is glaring mulishly at the horses, already wishing to be joining his father on glorious conquests. "Be good for your Lady Mother, now."_

 

_"Watch out for each other," Anne whispers so no one can hear her. "I would not lose you again."_

 

_Her husband gives her an intense look that makes a shiver run up her spine. "You never lost me, Annie," he says in a low voice, and then rears his horse around. "Come, we burn daylight!"_

 

_"For Ned and England?" Francis winks at her, and the two of them ride out of the courtyard.)_

 

"Bring him back," she tells the dark sky, "Bring him home."

 

Anne is woken by horse hooves clattering against the wet stone, and a familar voice singing quietly. The sky is a dusky red, not yet full daylight. "I should have you hired as a jester," another voice - one she would recognise in her sleep - remarks in a quieter tone. "Do you _mean_ to wake the whole house, Lovell?"

 

"That's _Sir_ Lovell to you!"

 

"A noble jester," Richard sounds weary - Anne is already dressing as fast as she can, skipping any clothing that she can without looking indecent. "You would be pride of place at Ned's court, then."

 

Francis' snickers ring in her ears as she takes the stairs two at a time, like she used to do when she was small and heard the sound of her father coming in from yet another triumphant battle. _He is home_ , her thundering footsteps sing out. _He is home and safe and well and he is come back to me!_

 

"Dickon!" she gasps out, stepping straight into the sodden outside. "Dickon, you are home!"

 

"We were intending not to rise you," Richard glares at his most favoured officer, but he is already swinging off his horse and sweeping his wet hair out of his face. "Oh, Anne, it is good to see you again," he whispers, cupping her face in his leather-gloved hands. "I have missed you."

 

"And I you," she gasps out, finally in his arms. His lips are soft against hers, the scrub of his beard a welcome coarseness, and his hands rub circles along her jaw and against her ears. He is soaked through, and she is getting wetter by the minute, but Dickon is home and in her arms again.

 

"My Lord Father!" she tenses slightly at the shriek that Edward lets out as he races across the cobbles in his nightwear. "Lady Mother said - she said you would be home, soon, if I slept, and she was _right_!"

 

Richard laughs and takes a step back as their son flings himself at his midriff. "Hello my boy," he says fondly. "And have you been good for your mother?" He seems somewhat reluctant to let go of Anne, keeping a hand on her shoulder even as he moves the other to ruffle Edward's fine hair.

 

"Ye-es," Edward says with a frown that clearly suggests the opposite.

 

"No greeting for me, young one?" Francis must have stabled the horses, for he comes around the corner on foot. Edward is happy enough to fling himself at his surrogate uncle, leaving Dickon to take Anne in his arms again. "Come, do you think Cook will be up?" For a man with no sons - that Anne is aware of, anyhow - Francis has always been perfectly at ease with Edward.

 

"But - my Lord Father -"

 

"They will be along in a minute," their friend laughs, allowing the boy to lead the way. "Dickon, don't take _too_ long, now?" Richard flushes a light red at the implication of his bawdy commander, and sends a rude gesture in his direction.

 

"I have missed you, Annie," he says again, as soon as they are alone. "Scotland is - not home."

 

He kisses her again, deeper now they're alone, and the rain beats down on them entwined, his cloak around her shoulders and her cold hands against his hips. He is home.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt party is now closed, thank you to everyone who submitted. At the time of writing, I have one left to do.
> 
> (I think I might do this again sometime! ♥♥)


End file.
